


I Think There's Something Wrong

by Narkito



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asperger's Syndrome, Autism Spectrum, Community: sherlockbbc_fic, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-09-27
Updated: 2012-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-24 02:46:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/258055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narkito/pseuds/Narkito
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[ABANDONED] After an altercation between the husband's victim and Sherlock, John realises this just can't be normal. There <i>has</i> to be something wrong, so he sets up to find what's going on. SMALL WARNING: This story deals with child developmental disorders and general mental health.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: My childhood sucked, but whose doesn’t, right?

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this prompt from the Sherlock BBC Kink Meme: 
> 
> Sherlock has always known that there's a reason he's unable to communicate properly with his peers or make any friends. However, Mummy was so fiercely protective of him that she refused to admit there was anything wrong at all.
> 
> Years go by, Sherlock and John move in together and then Sherlock's social shortcomings start becoming more and more pronounced. Sherlock finally realizes that maybe he should try to find help.
> 
> He sits John down one night and confesses that he’s been suspecting Asperger's. John's been suspecting it for a while too. They work through it together and get him the help he's likely needed since his childhood.
> 
> (I'm following the prompt more or less)

He’s eight and he’s standing right next to mummy in the kitchen. She’s holding a small pack of ice to his eye and checking the damage at regular intervals.

“Mum, I don’t understand why the other kids are being mean to me!”, he stomps his foot for good measure and focuses on the top three buttons of mummy’s cardigan, twisting them one by one.

“Maybe because you were mean to them first… stop fretting, darling.”

“But how?! How was I mean? They asked for honesty and I gave them exactly that! I don’t get it!” He feels his cheeks burning and his hands turn into tight balls winding his mother’s clothes.

“Sherlock, son, calm down, here, let me give you a hug…”, mummy opens her arms and manages to press him against her chest for a fraction of a second, before Sherlock goes rigid and starts pushing her away. She hugs him tighter, which only makes him fight her harder.

“NO! Let go of me! I hate you, I hate you, I hate all of you! Leave me alone! I hate you, I hate you!”

~~~

It’s way past his bedtime, but he can’t sleep, there’s something wrong, although he can’t be sure what. He kicks his covers and exhales. His skin feels hot and swollen, so the shock of cold air is more than welcomed. He gets out of bed and presses his ear to the door, he can hear his parents in the lounge and he immediately gets curious, he knows he’s not supposed to eavesdrop, but adult conversations are much more entertaining than kid-talk, so he _has_ to go. He opens the door and goes to sit at the top of the stairs as quietly as possible.

“… well, that’s what his teacher said, I’m only repeating it to you”, that was his mum talking. He had completely forgotten about the parent-teacher conference today, he wondered how mummy had known.

“Surely, she must be mistaken. I mean for Christ’s sakes, Julia, he only needs to turn down the volume! Quite a pair of lungs in that kid, I tell you, but we’re not spending a small fortune on a speech therapist so he remembers to use his _indoor voice_ at school. That’s insane!”

“Yes, of course, I mean, she seems a competent enough teacher, but what does she know about speech disorders anyway? That’s clearly _not_ what she went to school for! Plus, we know Sherlock is such a difficult child, we’ll just remind him to be quieter, I’m sure he’ll grow out of it in no time.”

“Yes, either that or we put a volume knob on that kid. Ha! Wouldn’t it be great if he came with a mute button, though?”

Julia laughs, and even though Sherlock can’t see her, he’s sure she flicked her hair as soon as the laughing stopped.

“He asked me the other day,” his dad continued “if I knew what sandpipers were for and then I couldn’t hear the end of it! It took me like ten minutes to figure out he was taking about trains! He’s going to be an engineer, my son, I’m sure.”

There’s a rustle behind his back and then a tap in his shoulder. He turns around to find Mycroft looming over him.

“What are you doing out of bed?”

“I couldn’t sleep. It’s too hot in there.” Sherlock sighs and rests his head on his knees. He’s is tired though, today was a rough day at school, again.

“C’mon, off to bed, I’ll crack the window open for you. You’ll be in sleeping in no time.”

“Fine. But sleeping’s boring.”

“All the better, at night _boring_ is good. Let’s go.”

~~~

“Look at me when I’m talking to you, hunching over like that is most certainly _not_ acceptable.”

He doesn’t want to anger his dad. He really doesn’t, but he can’t quite look him in the eye either, he doesn’t know why, he just can’t. Just like he doesn’t understand what he did wrong, he thought they were having fun, but then a girl with braces with a name rhyming with _alley_ started crying and his twin brother called him a “freak” and pushed past him with alley-braces-girl in tow.

“… so you’re going to walk up to their house and apologise. You hear me?” _Hear what?_ , was his first thought and then he was immediately terrified. He didn’t hear a thing! He was so lost in head… _oh, god_ , he had done it again! His dad was going to be furious. Sherlock had been repeatedly told to pay more attention, and just as many times he had failed to comply.

“Yes, father.”

“I said ‘look at me when I’m talking to you’!” Just then, a speck of dust floated by his line of sight and he couldn’t do anything but follow it with his eyes. Then, there was a loud “smack” sound that reverberated inside his head and the entire world seemed to be filtered through a wall of cotton. “Go to your room,” his father told him, but he wasn’t sure whether to move or not, wouldn’t he also be angry that he didn’t apologise to the girl?

It must have taken him a few seconds too long, because his father gently pushed him outside the studio by the shoulder and close the door behind him.

“Just go to your room, Sherlock”, he had said as he closed the door.

As he walked the hall to get to his room, the world came back online and he realised he was on fire. His entire body was burning, and as this fire consumed him from within, a rage he didn’t know he possessed, started bubbling from his every pore. By the time he got to his room and closed the door, he was so irritated, annoyed and simply angry that he just couldn’t hold it in anymore; he started to scream, his left foot connected with the closet door and everything went black.

When he came to, it was like waking up from a distant dream and slowly coming back to reality. There was a rhythmic “crack” sound near him, but he couldn’t identify where just yet. Mycroft was there too, crouching down to his left, holding both his hands in front of him, as you would to keep at bay a wild animal.

“ _Sherlock, stop, calm down, everything’s going to be alright. Shhh, you’re safe here. Please stop._ ”

The rhythmic _crack, crack, crack_ suddenly came to focus, and Sherlock realised he was banging his head against the wall, and with each hit, the world became clearer. When he came completely to his senses, he became aware of his surroundings. He was at the end of his bed and his room was a mess; the wallpaper from the opposite wall was hanging loose and ripped apart at one side. Most of his books were on the floor, the spines of some books split open and a bunch of pages tore down.

“Sherlock, please, stop.” Mycroft pleaded again, and there was something in the way he said it that Sherlock couldn’t recognise, but it was enough to make him stop.

~~~

He’s fourteen and he’s sure he’s losing it.

He’s been to three different psychologists and they all tell him different things. The word _repression_ was thrown around regularly by the first one, in fact, more than he, Sherlock, could stand; he just couldn’t trust a person who didn’t have a big enough vocabulary.

The second one was a rather taut woman that made him answer all sorts of questions and fill forms and sheets. And then, proceeded to make all sorts of outrageous statements about him: _it says here you would rather go out with friends than stay home and study_ ; first of all, he didn’t have _friends_ , not really, not the way they’re _supposed_ to be your friends, and secondly and most importantly, he would rather chew his own arm off than to do any school work, it was the most boring and mind-numbing task he could imagine, the stuff of nightmares for all he cared, so yes, going out with the boys, even though as extremely detrimental to his physical integrity as it was, was better -in all accounts- in comparison to _studying_ , as the _lady_ -no way he was calling her ‘doctor’- so blandly put it. Her tests were all wrong and confusing anyway!

The third one was a prick, nothing else to say there, and so, he’s glad he made him cry. He actually took pride in throwing the money to pay for his consult in his face, even if he’s fairly sure it wasn’t polite at all. However, he did say something that scared him a bit, and perhaps that was the real reason he hated him so much. He said there was no cure for people like him, and that most ended up in jail. He decided not to tell his parents the real reason he wanted to change his therapist again, but made up a good enough story that not so many questions were asked after all.

Finally he’s at the waiting room of therapist number four. He’s tapping his foot rapidly and chewing his thumb nails. The secretary looks at him from over her glasses from time to time, but mostly ignores him. His mother gently puts a hand on his knee and he takes it as a cue to stop tapping his foot. At the same time he stops, the office door opens and a man well on his fifties stands on the other side, holding it open with a smile on his face.

“Sherlock, sorry to keep you waiting, come in.” He makes an inviting gesture with his hand and stands aside to make room for him to enter. Sherlock stands up and partially turns around to look at his mum. “No, Sherlock, just you.”

“Go on, sweetheart, I’ll be right here, waiting for you.”

“Yes, mummy.”

He goes in, he sits down, and he looks around. Not bad. The walls are a pale blue that turns out to be not too stimulating, nor too depressing either. The office has two big chairs that are a match to the sofa in the waiting area, and two small ones; he’s sitting in one of them, the psychologist’s sitting in one of the big ones right in front of him. The desk is on the other side of the office, not between them like it had been with the other three imbeciles that called themselves therapists.

“So, I know your name is Sherlock. My name is Alan. How are you today?”

“Fine.”

“Good, fine’s good. Do you know why your mother brought you here?”

“I’m crazy, so she’s looking for someone to fix me.”

“Mmm, actually what she told _me_ was that you were having a rough time at school and that she doesn’t know how to help you, so that’s where I come in. Want to tell me about school?”

Half an hour later, Alan tells Sherlock he needs to speak to his mother alone, but not to worry; he’s not going to tell her what they just talked about. Sherlock goes out and his mother goes in. The secretary goes back to mostly ignore him and he entertains himself designing a perfect murder in his head.

On the ride home, mummy’s holding back tears and Sherlock’s sure he’s about to be committed, nevertheless, he finds in himself the strength to ask her about what she talked about with the doctor.

“Well, he said you were an extraordinary child and that he could tell you were extremely bright,” he felt his chest swell up in pride, “however, he also said that people as smart as you sometimes have problems because they’re too smart for their own good and it’s hard for them to ignore the bad things that happen around them.” A beat; this was it. He was going straight to a loony bin. “So, if you want to, he said he was willing to work with you and help you see the good things.”

With certain trepidation, Sherlock noticed how his mother had made a right turn where they usually went left. A quick look at his mental map told him they were in fact driving west, in which direction the Psychiatric Hospital was. “Does this mean you’re going to have me committed? Are we driving to the hospital _now_?”

“What on earth?! _NO_! You’re not crazy, Sherlock; I’m not having you committed! We’re going to pick a few parcels your brother sent ahead. He’s coming for the long weekend; remember I told you about it?”

***

His mobile starts vibrating and plays the tune he’s got set for the alarm clock. He’s been awake for at least an hour now. His head hurts; both from not sleeping and all the thinking he’s been doing. Actually, no, scratch that, he’s not been thinking- _thingking_ , like for a case, no, the correct term is that he’s been dwelling on the past, and even though it’s been a long time since the last time he visited these memories in particular, something, somewhere inside him, still hurts.

“ _Sherlock? Are you up?_ ”, that was John, in all likelihood he was going to enter his room within two minutes and bully him into taking a shower, so afterwards he could change the dressings of his wound before going to work. No sooner said than done, John was knocking at his door. “Are you decent? May I come in?”

“If you must”, he muttered mostly to himself. Sure enough John would come in even if explicitly uninvited. And as expected, he does.

“Sherlock, you getting up anytime soon?”

“You want me to get cleaned up so you can change the dressings before you have to go, right?”

“This would go a lot smoother if instead of waiting for me to come here and ask you would just get up and shower already so I could do my end of the bargain…”

“Yes or no?”

“Yes. Now would you get up already? I don’t want to be late for work.”

“Late? You have two hours to get there.” Sherlock stretches a bit and gets out of bed, rummaging around for clean clothes.

“Yes, but it takes me a whole hour to walk there and at this rate—“

“Walk? Why walk when you can take a cab?”

“Sherlock, do you even listen when I talk to you? I told you _yesterday_ that I don’t have money laying around, I have enough to pay the rent and some food, but not enough for cabs, or bus fares for that matter.”

“Right. Umm, bookshelf, third book from the left, there’s money in there, help yourself. I’ll go shower now.”

“Sherlock! That’s not what I…” Useless, he had already closed the bathroom door.


	2. It’s an epidemic!

Ever since “the incident”, as he called it in his head, things had been _off_ with Sherlock. Or more accurately, he had been noticing certain behaviours more clearly. It still didn’t make sense in his mind, but a pattern was beginning to form, it was just a matter of time; especially now that he was questioning all the things he had first taken on a stride about Sherlock. On the other hand he was less prone to forgive him and just simply accept whatever Sherlock did, which was throwing them off, both of them.

In retrospective Sherlock was just being _Sherlock_ , so his usual level of insensibility was to be expected, independently of whether it was normal or not. What they hadn’t expected was the husband of the victim pushing Sherlock down the stairs, and Sherlock falling down in a rather spectacular fashion; flapping his arms to get a hold of something, landing on his wrist and cutting himself on a nail from hand to elbow. A trip to the A&E, a sprained wrist and thirty five stitches later, John realised something had to be wrong. Even when victims, witnesses and the occasional policeman responded to Sherlock in a very passionate way (and most of the time with good reason), this was the incident that opened John’s eyes. Something had to change. No matter how brilliant Sherlock was, no matter how much of a dent he was making to the criminal underworld of London, something _had_ to change, otherwise, one of these days he was going to be severely injured, as in dead, by one of those of who he’s trying to help, as opposed to the actual bad guy and that’s the sort of irony John just isn’t capable of accepting.

~~~

John laid the povidone-iodine packs on the kitchen table, waiting for Sherlock to come down. He heard the bedroom door and immediately after, Sherlock’s steps on the stairs.

“Alright, doctor, I’m ready, make me all better.” Sherlock said as he entered the kitchen, his arms opened, holding his t-shirt in one hand and his mobile in the other.

“Oh, I wish it was that simple. Sit down please.” Sherlock arranged his t-shirt on the back of a chair and put his mobile on his pocket, then sat down on the table with a flourish, right next to the sterile packs.

John took one and ripped it open with his teeth.

“Oh, and you tell me that this is sterile and serves the purpose of preventing infection?” Sherlock teased.

“Well, I have antiseptic breath. Turn your arm around, let me see the stitches.” John looked at them closely and wrinkled his nose. “The last three don’t look so good; I think they might become infected.”

“Is that your professional opinion?”

“Yes, it is. Why?” John asked wearily, they had already travelled down this road before and it wasn’t pretty, Sherlock was good at solving puzzles, he was good at being a doctor. End of discussion.

“Because you said _might_ , ‘might’ doesn’t really imply much certainty, now does it?”

John looked at Sherlock for an entire second and then asked “Were you trying to make a joke?”

“Wasn’t it obvious?”

“No, not really.”

“Well… you done _iodine-ising_ my arm?”

“Just a minute.” He opened another packet, this time with his hands instead of his teeth, and applied the tissue to the might-get-infected stitches. “I’ll see if I can get my hands on a healing and antiseptic cream at the surgery. You’re good to go.”

“Thanks, John.” Sherlock stood up and grabbed his shirt and started to put it on, stopping when his left arm was half in the sleeve. “Oh, it’s got a stain.”

John, who has putting his things away and clearing the table, looked up. There was something about the way Sherlock said it that caught his attention.

“I can’t believe it’s stained, it’s my last clean shirt.” Sherlock said, as he took it off. “I sent them all the other day, it wasn’t stained before.”

“Sherlock, it’s just a stain, it happens. Here let me see it.” John extended his arm, hand spread out to take the shirt away, but it was as if Sherlock hadn’t heard him at all, he just continued to ponder out loud about his stained shirt. “Sherlock, you’re obsessing about something silly.” Again nothing, no reaction. “Sherlock? Are you there? SHERLOCK?!”

Sherlock jumped a little and then looked through John, not really at him. He looked confused. And then uncomfortable. He looked at the shirt in his hands one more time and then turned around on his heel and went up the stairs two at a time.

“Third from the left, John, don’t forget!” Sherlock yelled from the landing.

“What?!” John yelled back.

“The money, John, the money.”

“I told you it was not necessa—“ the door to Sherlock’s room slammed shut.

John sighed and took his bag by the shoulder strap, checking his keys were on his pocket before going out.

~~~

At the surgery he gets three people with common colds, one with stomach flu and one with an ear infection.

At lunch he sits and stares at his food for a while until Sarah comes and sits beside him.

“If you want I can trade you mine?”, she says as she rests her tray next to John’s. But he says nothing, he just shakes his head. Sarah looks put off. “Would you rather I gave you some space?”

“What? No, no, sorry, I was just thinking. I’m sorry, I got caught in… I’m sorry, please stay.”

“So, you guys on a case?”

“No. I was thinking about Sherlock.” Sarah gave him a funny look, but managed to continue chewing her lettuce, she figured he would explain the details. “There’s something wrong, but I don’t know what it is.”

“You mean other than he’s generally creepy?”

“No, or rather yes… you see, I think that’s the problem…” He looked at her right in the eye with an air of conclusion.

“Umm, no, John, I don’t really see.”

“OK, I’ll need your doctor skills right now. If I told you that I have a white male on his early thirties with no sense of what’s polite, no sense of danger or self preservation, what would you think?”

“I would think your patient might be a nutter.”

“Exactly! But because this is Sherlock and he solves crimes that nobody else can, we all let it slide and look the other way, we just call him eccentric. Well, what if he’s not eccentric, what if he’s sick or something?”

“Okeeeeeeeey…”

“So you get it?”

“Yes… except, not really.”

“Yeah, me neither.” John scratched the back of his head and afterwards crossed the arms on his chest.

“John, what’s really _bothering_ you?”

“I don’t know, Sarah, not just yet.”

~~~

He took the underground back home, then got off at his station and walked the rest, trying to steer free of the construction site because all the dust made his allergy act up. As he went around the corner to Baker Street he saw the unmistakable lights of a police car in front of their building. He ran up the stairs and swung the door to their flat open, Lestrade was in there, holding an official-looking piece of paper in front of Sherlock.

“…are we clear?”

“You can’t do this to me! He pushed me down the stairs! I should be the one filing for ASBOs and restriction orders.”

“Sherlock, look, I’ll only say it once again: I need you to lighten the act. You can’t go around telling people how stupid they are, or throwing in their faces their infidelities and mistakes. As much as it _helps your process_ ”, he said this in a very sardonic way and made John cringe inwardly, “I just can’t protect you forever and from everyone! Alright?! And tomorrow, you’re going to march your arse down to the court house and apologise!” Sherlock started to refuse, but before he could even get a full word out, Lestrade added, “In case you didn’t notice, I’m not asking if you want to, I’m telling you what you’re going to do!” He put on his coat and swished past John, without even nodding in his direction to acknowledge his existence.

“How can they expect me to do my work like that? They’re tying my hands! _lighten the act, lighten the act_ , it’s _NOT_ an act! I can’t stand people and their constant need to talk about unimportant things! How else can _I_ know if they’re telling the truth if I don’t just go and ask! Give them enough time and they’ll try and mask the truth, that’s what they do, all of you, you lie trough you teeth all day long and call that _being social_ and _nice_ …”

“ _Sherlock._ ” John tries to get his attention to no avail, Sherlock it’s completely gone on his rant and getting more agitated by the second.

“…I can’t stand the lies people tell each other just for the sake of making conversation! _Apologise_ , ha! Like I apologise to inferior, illogical, feebleminded people!”

“Sherlock, calm down, you’re going to give yourself a heart attack.”

“How dare he take me away from my job?!” He seems to be slowing down a bit; perhaps he’s blown enough steam by now.

“Sherlock, it’s not your job, you don’t get paid for this. And even if it were your job; you have no right to treat people like that. Don’t you get it?”

“No, I don’t.” He shakes his head lightly and goes stare out of the window. “Do you know when it’s done?”

“What’s done?”

“The construction on York Street.”

“Umm… no, not sure, no. Why?” _Well,_ John thinks, _that was one hell of a change of topic_.

“Because it’s driving me crazy.” Sherlocks scratches his head and goes sit on the couch.

“Noted.”

“What was that?” He says from the couch not really looking at him.

“Nothing, but I got you the new cream from the surgery. It’s in my bag, here let me get it for you.”

~~~

Next day, as expected, Sherlock doesn’t show up in court and Lestrade calls him when he’s in the middle of checking the sore throat of a really sweet girl that can’t stop talking about horses long enough for him to actually check her. Her mother’s got bags under her eyes and a weak apologetic smile.

“Sweetheart, the doctor needs to check your throat, so you have to be quiet when he does that.”

“But mummy, I was in the most important part!”

“Gwen, he’s a busy man, let him do his job.” This woman must either be the most patient person he has ever met, or be extremely tired; she doesn’t even raise her voice whilst saying this. His own mother would’ve promised him the scolding of his life by now, complete with extra house-chores and the warning finger.

His mobile keeps buzzing inside his pocket, he glances down and sure enough is Lestrade again.

“Listen, Gwen. I’ll make you a deal. You open your mouth, stick out your tongue and say _aah_ , long enough for me to check you out and I’ll give you a lovely sticker of a horse. How about that?”

Gwen jiggles her legs and complies. Incapable of smiling with her lips, she smiles with her eyes as she looks at the ceiling in excitement.

Bribery, always works.

“Alright, Gwen, that was all,” he ruffles her hair and goes to his desk, where he plans on having a quick chat with the mother. “Right. She’s not sick. She’s got a bad case of allergies. I’ll write you a prescription for it and an order for an exam; it’s a scratch test, so we know what she’s allergic to. Any questions?”

“ _Yes! Where’s my sticker?_ ”

“Of course, how could I forget,” he rummages through his cabinets and finally finds the sticker sheet, he better have a pink pony left. “Here.” He hands her the sticker.

“But this isn’t a horse! This is a unicorn, there’re not the same! Mummy! He lied!”

Mrs Jones starts looking pretty worried all of the sudden and the bags under her eyes seem to go darker.

“No honey, he didn’t lie, it was a mistake. He thought it was a horse, it wasn’t a lie.”

Gwen starts squeezing her fists tight and her left leg bounces up and down.

“He lied, he lied, he lied…”, rapidly her words turn into shrieking and Mrs Jones drops her purse right in the spot and hugs her daughter from behind, she’s applying so much strength, her arms go whiter on the inside.

“Gwen, c’mon, breathe, honey, breathe, it was an honest mistake, you know we’ve talked about this. C’mon, honey, stop, you’re going to hurt yourself…”

John doesn’t really know what to do with himself or how to help. He’s seen tantrums before, but not like this. Ever. Gwen’s is shrieking at the top of her lungs and kicking her legs wildly. If her chair had been a few centimetres closer to the desk, she would’ve put a few good dents on it by now.

Mrs Jones keeps talking on a soothing voice and prompting her daughter to take a deep breath and relax.

After what seems like an eternity, Gwen’s shrills start to fade into a low hum, and eventually into silence. Mrs Jones seems truly exhausted by now.

“I’m sorry, doctor, she has a hard time differentiating a lie from a mistake. She can’t tolerate lies. I’m really sorry.”

“That’s… umm, why don’t I get you a nurse to help you with the check out? Wait here, I’ll be right back.”

He goes out and all eyes are on him. Figures, with all the yelling they might be wandering whether he was killing someone in there. A snotty-nosed kid eyes him cautiously from behind his dad’s legs, and the dad pats his head. His mobile buzzes again, but only once. A text then, but he’ll have to check it later.

When he reaches the desk he must have a desperate look on his face, because the secretary offers whatever help he might need immediately.

“Yes, Mrs Jones in my office needs help with the checkout process; she’s got her hands full with her kid right now, so…”

“Oh, Mrs Jones, poor dear, she’s my neighbour, you know. Such a beautiful, bright little girl… what a shame.” John’s puzzled face encourages her to explain further. “Well. Little Gwen? she’s on the spectrum,” _doesn’t ring a bell_ , John thinks. “Autistic? Jesus Doctor Watson, you’ve been out of the medical setting far too long, it’s an epidemic by now! It’s what all the journals are talking about. Don’t you worry I’ll go help her immediately.”

Judy, the secretary, steps out of her desk with a stack of papers and heads straight to John’s office. He takes this brief window of opportunity to check his messages: four missed calls, two text messages. The calls are from Lestrade, the messages from Sherlock.

_“Come pick me up, you know where –SH”_

_No I don't really know where_ , John mutters to himself, not that it actually does any difference, but it’s nice saying it out loud.

_“They’re going to take my phone away now. Hurry –SH”_

Figures. One more patient and he’ll go rescue Sherlock from whatever he’s gotten into now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I first posted this chapter at the livejournal community, the comment of autism being an epidemic caused a bit of a problem. For those out there who might feel offended that autism was called an epidemic, let me just tell you that I do not think that autism is a disease, I know and understand that it's a developmental disorder and just a different sort of wiring of the brain (amongst other things).
> 
> When the character calls it an epidemic, she's referring to the way it's portrayed through media as in "epidemic: widely prevalent".
> 
> Any issue or question that you, dear reader, may have, please do not hesitate to leave a comment and I'll answer it promptly.
> 
> Thanks for reading.


	3. That damned construction site!

He can hear him yelling from the hall, which is kind of impressive on itself, but looking at the faces around, not so good on the greater scale. He searches the area with his eyes and spots Lestrade leaning on the front desk, having a quiet conversation with the receptionist.

John approaches the desk with an apologetic smile.

“Detective Inspector.”

“John.” Lestrade’s voice is tight and precise. He must be fuming inside, and trying very hard not to show it. Better to go straight to the point.

“So, what did he do this time?”

John had called Lestrade as soon as his shift was over; as it turned out he was in the middle of getting Sherlock out of trouble so he couldn’t really explain, but he had asked for John to come collect Sherlock at the station as soon as possible.

“The git went to the Taylors house and attempted to apologise directly to the person that warranted the ASBO, you know the one that pushed him down the stairs the other day. To do _that_ , he missed his court appointment, so the ASBO went right through, whereas he had showed up, it wouldn’t have in a million years!”

“Detective, I’m so sorry, he said he was going to apologise, I assumed he meant the…”

“There’s _more_ ,” Lestrade interrupted, “This Taylor bloke called the police after Sherlock wouldn’t desist in his attempt to apologise. When the police arrived he proceeded to yell at them and _then_ he had to be forcefully handcuffed in order to put him into the police car. Apparently he screamed and kicked the entire way here, letting everyone know exactly how much he _disliked_ being paraded around in one of those.”

“Jesus!” John was speechless. He could actually see it in his mind. Sherlock pushed to the ground or to the bonnet of the police car, one of the police constables holding him still and the other one forcing his way to put the handcuffs on. “Jesus.

“By the time he was brought here, he was pretty agitated. I tried to talk some sense into him, but as you can hear, he hasn’t calmed down enough yet. Now, I _can_ get him released today, but he’s got to shut up and calm down long enough to make a quick civilised departure, I just can’t cut him loose when he’s…”

“Ok, I got it. Can I…?”

“Yes, of course, I’ll take you myself.”

~~~

The cab ride had been awkward, at best. Sherlock seemed to be completely spent. And who wouldn’t after yelling at the top of their lungs for almost four hours. Thankfully, presuming Sherlock actually shows up at his next arraignment, the ASBO and the entire police car incident will go away with a slap on the wrist. Thanks to Lestrade.

Sherlock had leaned on the window the entire ride, his left hand tapping his thigh on a rhythmic fashion. John on the other hand, had used the quiet time to formulate in his head what he wanted to say later, when they got home. This just couldn’t happen again.

The cab started to slow down and John perked up, except they were nowhere near Baker Street yet. There were emergency lights ahead and a big orange detour sign.

“Excuse me? What’s wrong?”.

“A detour, sir. Exploded pipe maybe, there’re Thames Water logos all over the place. We’ll go up York Street.”

“Oh, OK then, thanks.”

“ _We can’t go up York Street_ ” Sherlock’s voice was hoarse and it seemed almost unnatural.

“Why not?”, said John, noticing how the cabbie was already on route there and not really caring for what the gentleman on the back was saying.

“Because of the construction site.”

“Don’t worry Sherlock, the roads aren’t blocked, they’re done pouring the foundations, I was there the other day…”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“OK. Well then, _what_ did you mean?”

“I mean we just can’t.”

 _Alright, was he just being intentionally dense?_ , John thought. “OK, Sherlock, I’m really tired now, do you think you could be more specific?”

“Yes.”

 _I walked right into that one, didn’t I?_. “Fine then, be more specific about the reason we can’t go through York Street”

“I already told you. The construction!”

“What about the construction?”

“Everything!”

“ _Everything_? You call that being specific?”

Sherlock groaned in frustration.

“Yes, everything! It’s loud, and stuffy, and it has dust and men yelling and machines beeping, it’s driving me insane, I can barely think with all the noise!”

The cabbie eyed them warily through the rear-view mirror, and offered some insight, “well, mate, you’re in luck, it’s so late that all the people have gone home. Trust me; it’s going to be quiet now.”

Just as he said so they drove past the construction site which was deserted except, probably, for a bored security guard whose main concern was to beat his last high score on Tetris or something. Sherlock did most certainly not look amused.

Soon enough, though, they were home.

Sherlock got off the car and went inside without looking back, leaving John to pay the fare. He collected his things and rummaged around his pockets until he put together the money, which he handed to the cabbie along with an apologetic smile. After today, he was becoming a true master of the _I’m-so-sorry_ art.

~~~

John went straight to the kitchen, dumping all of his stuff on the kitchen table and putting the kettle on. Sherlock was already staring out the window; his left thumb pressed to his lips and his right hand tapping away on the side of his thigh, as it had been on the cab, like it had never stopped.

As the water boiled away, John decided it was now or never.

“Sherlock, we need to talk.”

Sherlock’s hand stops tapping and his left hand slowly comes to rest to his side.

“I miscalculated. That’s all, nothing to talk about.”

“Sherlock, you didn’t miscalculate. You missed it altogether. You were in jail in case you didn’t notice. If it wasn’t for Lestrade you would still be there!”

“Yes, I got it, thank you.” His right hand resumes the tapping, faster than before.

“Sherlock, I don’t think you _really_ get it. You were completely off the mark. Yelling like a lunatic, you’re lucky they’re not charging you with the assault of a police officer! I’m telling you, you’re completely… off! And you _have_ been, for weeks!”

“I have not! My work is as precise and elegant as ever!”

“Your work? Sherlock, what about your safety? What about the way you treat other people?”

“Oh, no, not you too! Want to tell me how awful a person I am? Why don’t _you_ and Mycroft get together and argue it over biscuits or something...”

“Sherlock, I’m not attacking you. I’m worried. I’m genuinely worried.”

“Oh, sod off! Leave me alone, and go play doctor or something!”

Sherlock turns around brusquely and goes back to staring out the window.

John’s face is flushed and he can feel a certain heat coming up his belly, so he grabs Sherlock by the shoulder to turn him around, because this conversation is _so not over_. He hates it when Sherlock treats him as nothing more than furniture; he wants him to look him in the eye when they’re talking!

And then, out of the blue, there’s shooting pain on his face and a metallic taste on his mouth. It dawns on him as soon as the buzzing on his ears subsides a bit, that Sherlock’s hit him. In fact, Sherlock looks as stunned as he is, and then, just like flipping a switch, there’s anger. There’s pure fury emanating from Sherlock’s body and he’s yelling all sorts of things; so fast, John can barely keep up. His hands are fisted at his sides and his face it’s red and shiny.

John’s still holding his face where the open hand of Sherlock’s frustration struck. Sherlock’s becoming even more agitated and has started to tremble, finally yelling with a booming voice: “I TOLD YOU TO LEAVE ME ALONE! WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH YOU PEOPLE? ARE YOUR BRAINS DEFFECTIVE OR SOMETHING? LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!”

It seems to do the trick and John quickly pulls himself together, turning on his heel and exiting the room at once.

“You don’t have to say it twice. I’m gone.” He whispers as he slams the door shut and all but runs out of the flat.

~~~

 _Walk it off_ , his commanding officer used to say, and he’s doing it, right until the point he realises he’s so tired he could melt to the ground and sleep it off instead. That’s when he also realises he left his bag back at the flat, and with that, his wallet and the couple of notes he’s got left inside.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he shakes his head a few times and looks up to the sky, “can you at least make it rain so we’re done with it?”, confident that no rain clouds have spontaneously gathered above him, he steps to a side a tries to get his bearings. Slow deep breaths help him calm down enough to realise he’s closer to Sarah’s than to his own flat, so he takes a chance and walks there. Worst case scenario, he blows off enough steam walking back to his flat from Sarah’s and by the time he gets home, Sherlock will be firmly settled on a sulk.

It’s a good twenty-minute walk, and by the time he’s ringing the bell a light rain starts to fall. There’s noise on the other side of the door and finally Sarah’s voice comes through the intercom.

“ _Who is it?_ ”

“Errr,” _Oh, he didn’t think this through_ , “it’s me, John.”

“John?! It’s everything alright?”, she buzzes him in before he can even formulate a response. He pushes the door open slowly and from behind comes the rest of Sarah’s sentence, “have you seen the time? What happened?”

 _Did he say he didn’t think this through? Hell, he definitely didn’t think this through!_

“Err, nothing really, Sherlock and I had a bit of a falling out—ow! Oi, that hurt!”, Sarah was prodding at his lip, which was no longer bleeding, but definitely hurt.

“Yeah, I can see that. Come on in it’s starting to rain.”

After he goes in, Sarah puts the kettle on and hands him a first-aid kit, pointing him to the bathroom.

“The tea will be ready by the time you come out.” She says this with a smile and wraps her robe tighter on herself.

John goes in, kit in hand and takes a look of himself in the mirror. When did those bags got settled under his eyes? When did his hair went from blonde to gray on the sides? He doesn’t remember being this old.

He audibly sighs and opens the faucet, sticking his hands under and washing his face with cold water, his lips sting a bit, but it doesn’t really matter, it’s not bad, he’ll just put an antiseptic on it to make sure it doesn’t get infected, and that’s it.

He looks in the mirror again only to put the cream on, he washes his hands, dries them and goes out. Sarah’s waiting for him on the kitchen table, and somehow he knows he’s got to tell her the whole story, to the tiniest detail, because this goes way over his capabilities.

And he does, he tells her about how worried he is, and how the things that Sherlock do no longer make perfect sense, he tells her about the missed court appointment, and what put Sherlock on that position in the first place and then, he tells her about him freaking out in the holding cell, about how much time and effort it took to calm him down long enough to leave the place, and how it all went pear shaped again at the flat. He doesn’t even remember how it got the point where Sherlock hit him, but he tells her everything that he remembers, even if it seems trivial or non important, if there’s one thing he’s learnt from Sherlock is that even the tiniest detail can hold the key to unravel the biggest mysteries of them all. And then, he’s finally said it all, he’s got all of his cards on the table and it’s both cathartic and a reason to worry all over again.

Sarah squeezes his hand affectionately and holds him in one piece for a while.

“I know a woman who’s a psychiatrist, maybe you should talk to her. I can give you advice on your… you know, garden variety of craziness, but this goes way over my head… and yours.”

“Yeah, I know. You, umm… should I call her? Is it like an acquaintance, or a friend? I mean, I don’t think I could get Sherlock to go, at all.”

“She’s a friend. A good friend. And maybe you should talk to her alone at first and see what she has to say about it.”

“Yes, that makes sense.”

“In fact, I could write her an e-mail right now and ask her if she could contact you as soon as she has an opening on her schedule, there’s no harm in trying.”

“Yes, I guess there’s no harm in trying.”

Sarah goes to the lounge to get her laptop and John attempts to drink his tea, but it’s cold and stale, not drinkable at all. He glances down at his watch. It’s almost midnight.

“OK, then. Here we go…”

“Hey, I’m really sorry about the time. I know you have to work tomorrow…”

“Ha, _we_ have to work tomorrow.”

“Yeah, right. We do.”

“And, you’re welcome. I know that if I were in trouble you’d also lend me an ear. So, here it goes nothing, I sent it. Now, if you excuse me I’ll go to bed and get some very much deserved sleep. You know where the quilts are, and this time, for your neck’s sake, go with the lilo.”


	4. Not what he was hoping for, but it’s something

He cracks open an eye and is taken aback by the unfamiliarity of the place. There’s a ringing sound coming from somewhere to his left, but he’s too asleep to even guess what would make such a sound. He blinks again and stifles a yawn. Where’s that ringing coming from?

He’s still deciding whether to get up and find it or to ignore it all together when it stops, so he buries his face on his pillow and attempts sleep again, only to be startled by the ringing again. This time he recognises it as his mobile, as a result he feels his way around until he finds it, right under the coffee table.

“Yes?”, his voice is croaky and thick with sleep.

He looks around and finds his watch. It’s six in the morning. No wonder he feels hung-over, after he went to bed last night it took him forever to fall asleep. A quick addition and subtraction tells him he’s slept about four hours, give or take.

“John, dear, is Mrs Hudson.” He sits straight and there’s a rush of adrenaline that takes over his body. Something must have happened.

“Mrs Hudson, is everything alright?”

“Oh, dear, no. There’s something wrong with Sherlock—“

“I’m on my way, sit tight,” John cuts her off and hangs up, already pulling his trousers on and patting his pockets for his keys.

He feels bad about leaving Sarah’s lounge a mess, so he quickly scribbles a note on a stray napkin and steps out into the chilling cold. The door closes and he remembers he doesn’t have any money, fuck it, he’ll run if he has to. After running for about ten, a cab pulls up at his side and he boards it telling the cabbie where to go and that he’ll have to wait when they get there so he can go in and find the money. Twenty five minutes later after getting the call, he’s standing outside the flat, fishing out his keys out of his pocket. He doesn’t really have the chance to use them, though as Mrs Hudson immediately opens the door for him.

“John, thank god. He’s quietened down now. I don’t know what happened. Here c’mon in, c’mon in. Dear, do you look worse for wear; here let me take your jacket…”

“Mrs Hudson, I’m fine, just tell me what happened.”

“Someone came visit Sherlock, very early in the morning, I was watering my plants you see, that’s how I knew, they rang and I came to open the door, it was a tall gentlemen and he said he was looking for Sherlock and to excuse him about the time. What an embarrassment, dear, I was still in my pyjamas! Anyway, I was about to tell him I would go fetch Sherlock for him, when he came down and pushed the gentlemen outside. I thought it was maybe police business, but then Sherlock started yelling about how his life was his own and how he owned explanations to no-one and then, he came back, up the stairs and he went… oh, you’ll see, John, you’ll see, lets go up.”

John followed her upstairs and had to steady himself on the doorframe. The kitchen was a mess. Well, it was usually a mess, but this time everything that used to be on the cupboards was on the floor and most of it was broken. In fact, one of the cupboards was missing a door, which is nowhere to be found at first glance. There was even some blood on the sink, and that makes John’s stomach churn in anxiety. It was only a few drops, though; Sherlock had probably ripped his stitches and nothing else. Hopefully.

The lounge was equally chaotic, the coffee table turned on its side and most of the books on the floor, pages wrinkled and torn apart. The couch cushions where strewn haphazardly on the floor, half covered by stuff John didn’t even know they had. Nevertheless, no sign of Sherlock.

Mrs Hudson must’ve sensed the obvious question was coming, so before John could even formulate his concern on his mind, she said “he’s asleep, I checked right before you came.”

“Alright, Mrs Hudson, thanks for everything, I’ll go check on him. Don’t worry, I’ll fix everything, I promise, we’ll replace anything that’s broken beyond repair.” Even as he said it, he knew he was lying.

Outside a car honks and John remembers the cabbie waiting outside to get paid. _There’s no way I’m going to find the emergency money in here._ He thinks as he stares down at the disarray of books on the floor, and with a pang of regret he sets off to Mrs Hudson’s flat, preparing himself to borrow some money.

***

It took him almost two hours to straighten up the place, and even _then_ it wasn’t enough. Sherlock, fast asleep, barely stirs on his sleep as John hoovers the broken glass in the kitchen. John’s thankful for that. He’s not quite sure he can deal with Sherlock and his insanity right now.

He finishes hoovering and then piles all the books to a corner, clearing a path as wide as possible and with that he considers he’s done everything that could be done for the flat without breaking his back. He’s falling asleep on his feet and is so tired he has a hard time believing his watch when he sees is only quarter past nine.

 _Oh, bollo— I’m late for work… dammit, dammit, dammit… Oh, sod it. I still need to shower and eat something_. He thinks and drags himself to the kitchen where he starts making himself a cuppa’.

He’s leaning on the cupboard that’s missing the door, drinking his much deserved tea from a glass (as all the cups have succumbed to Sherlock’s rage) when he realises his eyes are drooping and he’s a minute away from starting to nod off. If it wasn’t because he’s standing on his feet in a rather precarious fashion, he would just as well fall asleep standing in the kitchen. Thinking about sleeping makes him even sleepier. _Right, coffee would’ve been a smarter choice_. He turns around and empties his glass on the sink, giving it a quick rinse. Then he starts looking for the instant coffee can, he’s pretty sure he only saw it a couple of minutes ago.

There’s a buzzing sound coming from the table and he turns around just in time to see Sherlock’s phone screen light up. It stops buzzing almost immediately. A message perhaps? John knows he shouldn’t, but he does it anyway; he takes the mobile in his hands, unlocks it and reads the message. Surprisingly, it’s from Mycroft: “ _Don’t be so childish. Go visit her and get this over with_.” What are these two fighting about now? Could he be the tall gentleman from the morning? He thinks he liked it better when Mycroft used him as the middle man between him and Sherlock at least that kept him in the loop.

 _Right, coffee and then a shower_ , he thinks to himself and then repeats it out loud to make sure he won’t forget.

Once he’s ready for work (almost an hour and a half behind schedule), he takes a few iodine packs out of his bag, along with gauze and a medical adhesive tape from the first aid kit and leaves it on the table. He stares at it. He knows he should leave, he knows he’s tired, that he doesn’t have the energy for it, he should just leave the supplies there and let him deal with his own mess. But he’s compelled to, so he puts his bag on the floor, gathers the supplies and ventures into Sherlock’s room.

Sherlock’s sprawled on his bed, still dressed. His shoes, belt and jacket on the floor. His shirt untucked, his trousers rumpled and slightly tangled with the sheets. His hair plastered to his forehead, a few curls brushing the collar of his shirt. He can see exactly where he ripped his stitches from where he’s standing; coincidentally the torn stitches are the ones that seemed to be getting infected. He can’t take care of that wound from home anymore; they’ll have to go to the A&E, or the Surgery at the very least. He stretches his hand to shake Sherlock by the shoulder, but stops when he’s centimetres away from touching him. Who’s he kidding? He can’t do this. He has to get out of this mad house before he goes crazy himself, well, crazier. He just can’t.

He leaves the things on a dresser and gets out, closing the door gently behind him.

***

He takes the tube to get to work and is precisely two hours late when he crosses the threshold of the surgery. Sarah’s on the waiting area, talking to an older woman, so he makes a bee line for the reception, avoiding contact of all sorts with his boss. No dice. The secretary is nowhere to be found so he has to go to Sarah to figure out his schedule for the day.

He approaches with caution and starts to apologise the second she turns around to face him.

“I am _so_ sorry. I know I’m late most of the time but I swear it’s… it’s…”

“Yes? It’s what?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m so tired I don’t even think I have it in me to apologise properly today. Can we say that I owe you?”

“Yes, but not an apology. My friend came through; she had a cancellation so she’ll have you at her office at 10:30. Don’t be late.”

“Really?”

“No, John, I’m lying… Yes, really. Whatever it is, I really do hope you guys can work it out.”

“Sarah, by now I’ll be pleased if it even has a solution.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Yes, that bad. Seriously, though, thank you so much.”

“You welcome. Here, I wrote the address and phone number. The name is Kelly Richards.” She hands him a piece of paper. “Anything you need, call me.” And then, to John’s astonishment, she hands him his mobile phone. “Left it under the couch, found it when I called you to let you know about the appointment.” She starts to walk away, but spins on her heel and turns to face him “oh, and for the record, you have the day off because you agreed to take over Anjali’s shift next Saturday, so she can go to her niece’s cricket match. Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am”. He almost feels like he should salute her, but suppresses the urge. Instead he gives her one of his warmest smiles and thanks her again.

***

The office is in a very posh building. As he walks in he feels terribly underdressed and has the dreading sensation that he’ll be stopped and held at the door by a security guard or something. He stands in front of the reception desk and feels insignificant, any other day he would’ve smiled at the green-eyed brunette behind the desk and, if in a good mood, he would’ve even flexed his flirting-muscles. Today, though, he doesn’t feel like it. He feels immaterial on his weary jeans and mangy jacket, and as the secretary smiles at him asking for his purpose of visit, he’s sure he’s just going to dissolve and cease to exist. But he doesn’t.

“John Watson to see Doctor Richards. I have an appointment at 10:30.”

“Yes, Mr Watson. Second floor, office two-oh-two.”

“Thank you.”

He already knows where the lifts are, he could hear them all the way from the main desk. He pushes the button and sure enough, less than a minute later, a _ding_ announces its arrival. He steps in and his reflection greets him back. He’s appalled by the state of his hair. He quickly works on it as best as he can, trying to put it in a more orderly fashion until the lift announces the desired floor with another _ding_ and then opens its doors. John steps out and goes to the right, looking for office 202.

The door is brown and dull – _huh, I’m starting to talk like him now_ \- and it’s open. He goes in and yet another secretary welcomes him.

“Good morning, how can I help you?”

“I’m Doctor Watson, I have the 10:30 appointment with Doctor Richards?”, he doesn’t mean to pose it as a question, but it comes out that way.

“Yes, the doctor will be ready in a couple of minutes, please, have a seat.”

The waiting room is painted in soft yellow and light blue tones that give the impression of a quiet sunset. There’re a few noncommittal paintings hanging from the walls and two beautifully framed certifications for one Kelly C. Richards. There’s a stack of magazines on a corner table and a smaller plain door to what he assumes must be a toilet. He grabs a magazine from the stack. It’s about home decoration and he’s bored out of his mind after flipping through less than half of it, so he puts it back and takes another one. This one’s in French and talks about fashion and fashionable items or places to go on vacation. He’s lost on a peaceful looking beach in Aruba when the door to the doctor’s office opens and who he assumes must be Kelly Richards –because, honestly, how many secretaries can you have?- walks out.

“Doctor Watson. Please come in.”

He’s got a whole deer-in-headlights vibe going on when she asks him to come in. He leaves the magazine to a side, stands up and smoothes out his trousers a bit. The office is painted in the same light blue as the waiting room is; no yellow. It has a desk next to a window and two very comfy looking chairs in front of it. There’s a cupboard full of board games that catches his eye, but before he can lucubrate on it, Dr Richards stretches her hand in front of her and introduces herself.

“Hello, I’m doctor Kelly Richards, as you are well aware of, but you can call me Kelly if you like.” John shakes her hand and sits on one of the chairs she’s pointing at. “So, what brings you here?”

“Errm…”, John can’t really decide how to start.

“OK, how about I tell you what Sarah told me and we take it from there?” He nods, “alright then, you have a friend who’s been acting strange and you’re worried about him… yes?”

“Yes, very worried about him.”

“Ok, so, how old is he?” She takes a notepad out of a drawer and writes something at the top. John has a sense of déjà vu and tries to shake the mental image of his own psychiatrist out of his head.

“He’s in his early thirties, but I don’t know his age for sure, thirty two, maybe? He looks about twelve, though.”

“Huh, looks younger or acts younger?” John has to think a bit about this one.

“Both, I guess.”

“OK, that’s alright, I’m just trying to get a sense of what’s he like. Sarah mentioned you lived together?”

“Yes, we’re flatmates. We’ve been flatmates for oh, three years now…”

“How did you meet?”

“Ha, that’s umm… well, lets say It was through a mutual friend.” He chuckles a bit to himself at that.

“You sure? I doesn’t sound like it was very much like that.”

“Well, as it often happens with Sherlock, there’s a lot more than it meets the eye.” She scribbles something on her notepad again.

“So, Sherlock, early thirties. Does he have a job?”

“Mmm, tough one, I would have to say no. He has an all consuming hobby of sorts, though, he calls himself a consulting detective and helps the police whenever they’re stuck on a case. But he also takes other cases that are not related to the Yard, and sometimes he gets paid for those.”

“Alright. Your friend sure leads a peculiar life. This is the first time I hear about umm,” she checks her notes, “a consulting detective. Now, before we go any further, I wanted to tell you that I might not be the most appropriate doctor for your friend, I don’t know if Sarah told you, but I’m a child psychiatrist, I would still very much like to hear what you have to say, and help in any way I can, but I probably will have to get you a referral to someone else. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I’m sorry for taking over your time, I’m really desperate and I’ll take any help I can get, a referral sounds just fine.”

“Good, now why don’t you tell me what’s really bothering you?”

John smiles. How is he supposed to make sense of what goes on in his life? He doesn’t have a clue, but he gives it a try either way.

“Err… this is going to sound… weird, but we don’t really have a normal life. I mean, I’m a surgeon, I mean, I _was_ a surgeon working for the RAMC, then I came back home and I didn’t have a place to stay, London was… simply put, unaffordable. Then our mutual friend, Mike, sets me up with Sherlock and the first thing he tells me is ‘ _Afghanistan or Irak?_ ’. I was astounded, he just… knew, he took once glimpse at me and knew exactly what I did and what I needed. That’s what he does for cases, you know, he observes, he takes in all the little details and puts them together so they make sense, so they tell the story… he’s a genius, there’s absolutely no other way to put it. He’s brilliant…”

“But?”

“Sorry?”

“I can sense a ‘ _but_ ’ coming, it’s a super power of mine.” Kelly smiles. And John smiles in return.

“He has vast knowledge of unthinkable subjects, most of them quite repulsive and it takes a lot to gross me out, believe me, but then he doesn’t know the simplest of things, like the earth revolves around the sun. Or that it’s the third rock from the sun, for that matter. He can tell from just looking at me what I had for dinner, hell, he can tell me where and with whom I had dinner with, but he can’t tell if I’m angry, or upset. And even then, I know he deduces my mood from the way a stand or something, but with strangers it’s even worse. He can’t truly understand why someone would get upset over their child dying. He’s just thrilled he’s got a new puzzle to work in. And it’s not like he’s just eccentric and it works for him you know, people get angry, they call him names. Even the yarders call him names!”

“That annoys you?”

“So easy to tell? Yes, it annoys me.”

“You tell me you’ve been living with him three years now. Have you been concerned about him all this time?”

“No. Yes. No, not really. At first I was impressed and thought he was just, you know, unconventional, but now…” John ponders and inevitably goes back to the night of the _incident_.

“So, what changed?”

“A few weeks ago, we were working a case, he said something completely outrageous, which is… pretty standard, actually, and then the husband of the victim pushed him downstairs. I knew right then something had to change. I mean, he’s brilliant, his method works for solving cases, but one of these days it’s not going to be a bad guy knocking on our door trying to do something to Sherlock, it’s going to be a pissed off husband, a grieving mother… the people he’s actually trying to help.”

“Does it happen often?”

“What?”

“People getting angry over what Sherlock tells them?”

“Yes, he’s very blunt, he mostly cares about his experiments and the truth, whatever that is… say, supposed I’m a married and I’m cheating on my wife and the three of us, Sherlock, my wife and I are on the same room, he doesn’t mind pointing out that I’m cheating, right in front of the wife, he doesn’t care that it may be embarrassing for her to find out in front of her family and friends. It just doesn’t compute.”

“It seems as if you’re taking from experience.”

“Yeah, he’s done it to me a couple of times.”

“I meant the cheating.”

“Oh, no, he did that to someone else, we were working a case.”

“And what do you do when something like that happens?”

“I usually apologise on his behalf. I even got a punch for him once!” He half laughs. Not that it’s funny, but what else can he do?

“Does he have family? Brothers and sisters? Uncles?”

“He has one brother, at least… that I know of. And I know their mother’s alive. That’s pretty much all I know of his family.”

“Does he have a partner? Girlfriend, boyfriend?”

“Funny you ask. I asked him the same once and it’s apparently _not really his area._ ”

“What does that mean?”

“I thought it meant he was gay, but no, it means he has no interest whatsoever in dating.”

“He sounds like a pretty lonely fellow. Does he have any other friends? You know, other than you?”

“Not to my knowledge, no.”

“OK. John, from what you tell me I see that your friend, Sherlock, is very smart, has vast knowledge on subjects of his interest, but if it doesn’t interest him, than it goes right out the window. He doesn’t have a job. Lacks finesse in social relationships and gets into serious trouble because of that. Am I right?” John nods, “so, from one fellow doctor to another, you know how this works. We deal in signs and symptoms, what I’m listening from you makes me think of only a handful of conditions that may apply to your friend, however, I’m a child psychiatrist, there may be some things that escape my grasp. I would very much like to meet Sherlock in person, so I can write an accurate evaluation and subsequently refer him to someone more capable. How do you feel about that?”

“Sounds reasonable.”

“Is there anything else you would like to add?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“Is there any other behaviour you think should be mentioned? Do you think he’s in anyway a danger to himself? To others?”

“No… yes. Actually, yes. He has no concern for his safety, so sometimes I do get worried over what might happen when he’s on a case, but I don’t think he’s about to commit suicide or try to hurt someone else. He does get into these sour moods over nothing, though, and that’s when you’ll see him at his worst, you kind of have to tiptoe around him. I don’t understand why he gets like that, at all. But that’s it, that’s all I can think of anyway.” Kelly writes on her notepad again. She’s filled a page and a half with scribbles and arrows pointing from the beginning of a phrase to others a few lines down. At the bottom there’s a big question mark next to a more discernible scribble that reads: social skills?

“OK, John, I think I have enough to get working on this. How about if you make an appointment as soon as you can get Sherlock in here. All you have to do is call and tell my secretary to squeeze you in. I’m sure we can figure something out. Tell her on your way out to give you a card.”

“Yes, sure. Thanks for everything.”

“You welcome.” She stands up and walks to the door, the gesture pretty clearly telling him it’s time to get out. So he does, and shakes her hand on his way out.

“Suzie, give him a card, please.” Kelly says and closes the door behind her. The secretary, Suzie, gives him a card, and tells him to have a good day.

On his way to the lift he checks his watch and he can’t believe it’s been only forty minutes, it feels like an entire lifetime elapsed in there. The lift dings and he steps in, he puts Kelly’s card on his inside pocket and inhales as much air as he can fit into his lungs. It’s not the resolution he was hoping for, but at least it’s something.


	5. Lack of sleep gets you nowhere fast

The lights on the selling room are murdering his eyes. On top of it, he’s so tired he can barely think straight anymore. He’s sure he needed something from this aisle; he just can’t remember what it was. A few cartons of milk seem like the obvious choice, since they’re staring him right at the face, but on this aisle they also have eggs, cream, juice and bottled water. If only he could use his brain and remember.

He stares at the skimmed milk for almost a minute before he decides to just take one of everything except for the juice and get it over with. He doesn’t care much for artificial juice. On his way to the cash register he also picks up a new mug and when he gets in line, he mentally crosses his fingers so they’ll take his debit card.

***

He makes his way to the kitchen in a zombie-like state, barely registering the tall figure sitting on what he’s come to consider as his chair. He leaves the shopping bags on the table and turns around to turn the kettle on. Whatever Mycroft’s doing here, he’s sure he’ll find it less disturbing if he has a cup of tea first.

 _“I already told you, Mycroft, hospitals and I just don’t get along.”_ Sherlock was sitting opposite to Mycroft, doing his best at ignoring him, basically staring at his nails and typing on his, oh no, strike that, _John’s_ laptop.

“Oh, Sherlock, please, stop being so childish, you _have_ to go see her, she’ll be so happy if you do.”

“I’m not stepping foot in there, and that’s final.”

John tries not to look their way, getting the feeling that whatever this is, is more private than he thought at first, yet he can’t help look out the corner of his eye, setting his eye on Mycroft, who’s rubbing his hands together, looking as tired as John feels.

“Sherlock, if you need me to beg, I will. Please don’t make this into a battle of wills. The doctors don’t think she’ll pull through this one. It might be your last chance. Please, get it together and go. We don’t have to go together if you don’t want to, you don’t even have to go in visiting hours, I can arrange special visitation rights, but please, don’t… don’t let her die like this. She’s been asking about you. Please.” John had never heard Mycroft being so sincere or use the word _please_ so often.

Sherlock shifts on his chair and turns his head to the window, balancing the laptop on his knees.

“Stop meddling, Mycroft, when I say no, it actually means no. If that was all, you know where the door is. Goodbye.”

Sherlock stands up and buttons up his jacket, almost sending the laptop flying into the coffee table, yanking it by the screen at the last second, and chucking it into the couch. He then goes to stand by the window, completely ignoring the pained look on his brother.

Mycroft, accepting his temporary defeat, or so he tells himself, stands up and leaves, not even bothering with putting on his usual mask of arrogance on his way out, barely acknowledging John with a nod. When the door clicks shut, Sherlock springs to life, turning on his heel and clapping his hands with a wide grin.

“Right, Lestrade texted, we have a case!”, he goes frantically about the room gathering his things.

“Umm, Sherlock, was Mycroft talking about your mother?”

“Well that much was obvious, wasn’t it?” He pulls his mobile into his trousers’ pocket and turns a few pillows searching for his scarf. Seeing he doesn’t get much of an answer out of John, or movement for that matter, he adds; “perhaps you should sit this one out; I see lack of sleep has affected your senses to a point where they’re completely useless.”

John was suddenly presented with two possibilities, either blow up and yell at Sherlock for his insensitivity (and general nastiness), or pretend he didn’t hear that and shift the conversation to a… _less_ delicate area. However, both options appear to be lacking a certain something that would make them both satisfied. He deeply doubts Sherlock understands why his remark was in actuality a _nasty_ remark, just like he doubts he’ll always be fine with changing the subject, not like it’s worked so well until now, mind you.

Even if he can see options (plural) instead of listening to that burning spot right behind his eyes that tells him to shout on his defence, and even if he can see how these options would affect their behaviours -so he’s able to choose the lesser of evils- he’s just incapable of finding suitable courses of action that would lead to more satisfactory results, and so, he opts for the one that –on his inexpert opinion- showed better probability of causing less of a fuss; change the subject.

“Riiiight, listen, I would love to go, but as you said, I need to sleep. So…, before _you_ go, how’s the arm?” John goes for a conversational tone, unaware of whether he’s succeeding or not, or if it will backfire or not.

Sherlock turns away from the couch, scarf in hand, measuring John with his eyes. And then starts unbuttoning his shirt. “You’ll be insufferable until I show you, won’t you?”

Sherlock leaves his shirt on the back of a chair, removes the bandage from his arm and shows John the extent of the damage. He must admit, John, that at least Sherlock did a very decent job of bandaging his arm, you can see from the way he folded the corners that he was being very careful with it. Then of course, considering Sherlock just tossed said bandage to the floor, one might not get the true motivations for careful corners by pure observation, one might actually have to ask and do some deduction of one’s own, which is not always the very best idea…. Funny how sleep deprivation makes his mind speak in overtly convoluted sentences. _Focus, John, focus!_

He shakes his head.

“Yeah, it doesn’t look half bad, but you’re going to need new stitches and it’s definitely getting infected, so a course of antibiotics too,” Sherlock started backing away, but John takes him by the arm and puts him on place again, “not so fast, buddy, I have to clean it before we redress it…” Sherlock opens his mouth to point out the inaccuracy of the sentence, but before he could even inhale enough air, John cut him off “and yes, by we, I mean _me_. Go sit down.”

John was exhausted, there was no doubt about that, but he knew he could do a simple clean up on his sleep. He also found comfort in the knowledge that right after this, he would go to sleep. Finally!

John took some things out of his bag and others from the first-aid cabinet on the kitchen (there were four impromptu first-aid kits around the flat; they were basically formed out of urgent necessity and -believe it or not- the repetition of the aforementioned necessity and the lack of motivation to put things back to their proper place).

“Are you going to tell me about your mother?”

“No.”

“What does she have?”

“Didn’t you just hear me say no?”

“No.”

“But you were right next to— _Sweet mother of_ —John, what are you doing? It hurts!”

“I know, I’m sorry; it’s infected. I’m almost done…” Sherlock had an involuntary sharp intake of breath and looked away from John, who was done lancing the injury and had resorted to press the sides of it. “Just a minute.”

“Oh, gee, a whole minute of this?”

“Well, we could talk about a relevant topic, like, oh, I don’t know, what happened to your mother…” Sherlock gave him a fierce look that rapidly morphed into a pained one when John applied renewed forces to his task.

After a moment’s hesitation Sherlock responded.

“She’s sick.”

“I know, I gathered that… _this damned…_ what does she have?”

“Cancer.”

“Late stage I presume?”

“Yes.”

“Any chance you’ll tell me why you don’t want to go see her?”

“I never said I don’t want to go see _her_!” Sherlock pulls his arm to himself, but John’s quick enough to grab Sherlock with both hands, squeezing hard to keep everything in place and avoid ripping anymore stitches. Having his hands on Sherlock’s arm, John notices how he had gone from semi-relaxed to a level of tension he didn’t know he was capable of. His pulse had quickened and his muscles had tensed, he was shaking a little from all the tension.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I must’ve misinterpreted. Why won’t you go then?” Again, he went for a conversational tone, and this time he has certainty that it works as Sherlock’s muscles begin to unlock and he starts to adopt a semi-relaxed stance again. His pulse will take a lot longer to go slow down, though.

“I… just… I don’t like hospitals. That’s all.”

“I hear ya, I don’t like them very much either.” John resumes his task and actually enjoys the half smile that Sherlock does.

“Now that’s something, a doctor who doesn’t like hospitals!”, Sherlock remarks, and for the first time in a long time, it’s as if they are both on the same page. John too smiles at the thought.

“There you go; ironies of life. Also, you’re good to go. I’ll write you a prescription for the antibiotics.”

Sherlock practically leaps from his seat and puts his shirt on with one swift movement.

“Can’t you, you know, bring it home from work or something?”

“Sure, but don’t wake me when that thing has the sweet smell of putrefaction in the morning.” He laughs.

Sherlock it’s already on his way out, but pops his head back in to answer.

“Oh, please, like I’m going to be bothered by putrefaction in the morning!”, and with that, he disappears into the stair case and a three seconds later, into the street.

 _At least that went better than expected_ , he tells himself, and half-heartedly cleans up and washes his hands. Unable to drag himself to his bedroom, he crashes on the couch. He’s asleep before he even hits the pillow.

***

“Easy, but still exhilarating! John! Are you home? Oh, I never thought I would be an aficionado for couple’s fights, I mean, I was never a fan of my parent’s fights, but this, oh, John, you should’ve been there! John? John!”

John came jogging down the stairs, with a towel over his head, energetically hand-drying his hair.

“Would you stop all that row? We have neighbours, you know?” One look at Sherlock told him everything he needed to know about the case. He was smiling broadly and brimming with excitement; this had the main ingredients to turn into a very good day. “So, are you going to tell me all about it?”

“Well, it was _easy_ ; child’s play actually, easier than playing Cluedo! But I have to admit, all the clues were left with a level of elegance I hadn’t thought was possible, I mean, sure, if I were to intentionally leave clues behind, mine would be elegant and sophisticated, but I never thought someone as, well, _common_ as an air traffic controller would be capable of it. It was brilliant! You should’ve been there, John, it was just like one of those soap operas you insist on watching—“

“Hey, I don’t _make you_ watch with me, and yet you stay,” John interjected amicably.

“Oh, nevermind that! Bottom line is, if you’re going to cheat, it’s _always_ easier to come clean to your partner and accept the consequences of your actions, as opposed to killing your brother in-law and try to frame your wife for it. Oh, John, I’m ecstatic. Let’s go eat something, I’m paying.”

“Oh, there’s no way I’m missing _that_. Let me finish getting dressed and put my things together, I’ll be ready in twenty minutes.”

“Excellent. I’ll go update my website in the meantime.”

***

They go for Chinese, because _why fix what ain’t broken_ , right? It’s pretty much a safe bet and John knows for sure they’ll have a good time at Pau San. He particularly enjoys the fish tanks around the walls; it must be murder to keep them clean, but so beautiful and peaceful to look at. Sherlock doesn’t say it, but John thinks he likes them too, and so, they both stare at the orange coloured fishes swim around in perfect tandem, forming invisible lemniscates in the water until their food arrives.

Forty five minutes later, they’re full-bellied and satisfied, waiting for the waitress to notice them so they can ask for the bill… well John _could_ help by rising an arm and making a “check” gesture, but Sherlock is the one that’s actually paying, so John will be doing nothing of the sort.

He turns to say something to Sherlock, but completely forgets about it when he sees his arm. Sherlock’s rolled his shirt sleeves up to his elbows, and from bellow the bandage there’s a red spot sticking out, except that when inspected closer, it turns out to be a red line that extends a few centimetres above the inside of his elbow. This is bad. Really bad.

“Sherlock, does your arm hurt?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Concern,” he deadpans. “Does it hurt?”

“Well, now that you mention it. Yes, it does.” Sherlock turns to look at his arm and then looks at John. “Well, now that I see it, I realise it pretty much a pulse of its own. It’s absolutely excruciating actually…”, he trails off as he inspects his arm.

“Can I touch?”

Sherlock nods his agreement. John uses the back of his hand to feel the temperature of the inside of Sherlock’s injured arm, and sure enough it feels hot and clammy, he then goes to touch the other arm, and the contrast is evident.

“Let’s go ask for the bill at the desk, I need to get you to a hospital right now.”

“Must we?”

“Sherlock, I’m willing to bet that you know as much as I do, that if the infection reaches your heart you’re going to be in a lot of trouble, plus, they have the good medicine, I can no longer treat you with the stuff I sneak out of the surgery, they’ll put an IV bag with antibiotics and we’ll be out of there in three hours, tops. C’mon, you can tell me all about the double lives of the whole staff.”

Sherlock stands and takes his coat from the chair next to him.

“Considering that it hurts like hell, I’m not going to fight you on this one.” John shakes his head and smiles broadly.

“Now, that’s a sport, let’s get out of here.”

***

Sherlock had been looking most miserable by the minute ever since John mentioned the infection. Thankfully, they get to the A&E in virtually no time, and once Sherlock’s turn is up, sure enough nurse and doctor rush around to lance the wound, clean it up and hook him into an IV.

It’s twenty minutes and a third of the IV bag later, that Sherlock starts to settle down. Before he had been looking like a caged animal, very jumpy and overtly anxious, he had accidentally knocked over the small table on one side, sending down a medical tray and a kidney dish. John had tried to calm him down, to no avail, so seeing him so quiet, he decided to inquire further.

“Are you alright? You feel dizzy or something?”

“No.”

“No, you’re not alright? Or no you don’t feel dizzy? It’s not uncommon to feel nauseous in these circumstances…”

“I said I’m not!”

“ _Easy_ , don’t get agitated, I’m just trying to help.” John lifts his hand to put it on Sherlock’s shoulder, but then second guesses himself and decides against it. Last time he touched him without warning, he had ended up with a bruised lip, so maybe not the best idea. Instead he pulls his chair closer and leans on the bed. “Don’t look so worried, Sherlock, we’ll be out of here in an hour, paperwork inclu—“

“It’s not that, I’m not worried about that.” _An opening, perhaps?_

“What are you worried about, then?”

“Oh, where to start?”, a playful tone. Which is kind of unsettling, hearing him like this, that is; John’s never seen Sherlock so vulnerable, there’s something exceptionally fragile about him on a hospital bed… perhaps that’s what’s getting to him too? Maybe that’s why he’s decided to open up all of the sudden?

“How about with what’s worrying you now? What are you thinking?”

There’s a long pause, and John’s deciding whether to repeat the question or just work a different angle when Sherlock answers.

“I’m thinking about my mum. She’s in this hospital, you know? No, of course you don’t know that… you’re too decent to go snooping around.”

 _That was… unexpected._ , John thinks.

“OK. Do you… umm, want to talk about it? Pay her a visit, maybe?”

“I think… I think I want to go see her, yes….”

“Well, we could—“

“Just not right now, not just yet.”

“Oh, OK. How about you tell me about her then?”

“She… I,” silence, “I don’t really know what to say.”

***

After being discharged, Sherlock’s looking worse for wear; dark circles under his eyes and hair dishevelled. They’re standing in front of the reception desk, waiting for his papers and Sherlock’s doing the whole caged animal thing again, he’s hitting his thigh with his left hand, and biting the nails of the other one, looking intently to the floor. Every now and then, he sways from one side to the other, two or three times, but then abruptly stops and starts the whole, tapping, chewing, swaying process again.

 _“Sherlock you need to sign this.”_

“I want to see my mother now.”

A beat. The girl behind the desk shuffles some papers. Sherlock’s looking intently into John’s eyes, so hard it actually burns, making him uncomfortable. He waves the papers in front of Sherlock.

“Sure, but first you have to sign these.”

Sherlock steps forwards and grabs the pen from John’s hand and scrawls his name and signature wherever John points him to. As soon as finished he demands to see his mother, and so, they ask for directions and go the fourth floor. At the desk, John politely asks about visiting hours and they tell him he’s just on time, and they point him to room 409.

They both walk silently to the room and stand by the door. The room is a private one, with horrid orange curtains and a couch against the wall instead of a second bed.

“ _Is that you, Sherlock?_ ”, a woman calls from inside and Sherlock steps in, John remains at the entrance. “Oh, my boy, my beautiful boy. I never doubted you’d come! Come here, gives us a hug,” there’s the sound of clothes fabric ruffling and John feels too much like an intruder, he’s about to leave when, “aren’t you going to introduce me? Who’s your friend? Is that who’s Mycroft been talking about, come here stranger, let me look at you.”

John has no option other than to step in.

“Mummy, this is Doctor John Watson, my friend, the one I was telling you about the last time we talked?”

“Oh, but that was ages! I can’t believe this is the same person!” She turns to John, “how does he treat you? He’s never been good at making friends you know… I still remember that time, when was it? I remember it like it was yesterday…” she looks at Sherlock, and then at John again, her eyes go glassy, and when John looks at her, he finds they now look vacant. Her sentence goes unfinished.

 _It’s the drugs_ , it happens when you have to choose between being lucid and in pain, or the other way around. He looks at Sherlock and he can’t imagine what must be going on behind that impenetrable mask of his. He knows he’d be devastated if it was _his_ mother on this bed.

“Sherlock Holmes, I can’t believe you didn’t tell me we were having company, I’m not dressed properly. There, hand me that bag.”

Sherlock follows her finger and retrieves the make-up bag she’s pointing at and gives it to her, giving a poignant look at John in the process. John takes it as his cue to leave.

“I’ll just be out in the hall, Sherlock, anything you need, I’ll be right outside.”

Sherlock nods and goes back to paying attention to his mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much happens in this chapter, but at least now you know why Sherlock's been acting so erratically lately. Hope you've so far enjoyed the story.
> 
> I'm a slow writer and this is what I've got so far, next chapter in ten days or so.
> 
> Thanks for reading.


	6. The Steady Path

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein John finally says what he needs to say.

John’s still pretty tired; he has to admit it’s been a terribly long month, Sherlock’s issues and all. The visit to his mother had been hard and entirely awkward, but worth it in the end. Sherlock was more relaxed and less prone to jump out of his skin when startled (and bite other people’s head off when things didn’t turn out his way). His worries on the social front remained, though.

He stifles a yawn as Mrs Waters drones on and on about her rash. He wants to scream ‘allergies!’ just to stop her from rambling about the roses, but he knows better than that, instead he shuffles some papers on his desk as to look busy weighing options. _One diagnosis away from going to lunch, c’mon, John, you can do it, just find a space in there and tell her it’s allergies_

“So, what do you think, doctor?”, John smiles inwardly at the opportunity. 

“Allergies, Mrs Waters, you’ve probably had an allergic reaction to your new gardening gloves. I’ll prescribe a topic cream for the rash, for three to five days, as many applications as you want during the day. Although preferably, in the morning, afternoon and then before you go to bed. I’m afraid you’ll have to throw your gloves away...”

“Oh, but those are a gift from my daughter…”

“I’m sure she’ll understand, Mrs Waters, children can be accommodating like that.”

After he walks Mrs Waters out, he locks the door behind him and takes off his coat, draping it over his arm. 

“John, clear all the morning patients already?”

“Sarah, what a nice surprise. Yes, already did. One of them rescheduled his appointment so…” He makes a gesture with his free hand, “erm, you going too? To lunch, I mean”, he trips over his own words and rolls his eyes for good measure, what is it about Sara that makes him feel like a twelve-year old again?.

“Yes, as a matter of fact I am, I’m on charting duty later today, so I figured, early lunch, early start, maybe not such a late finish? I don’t know, I guess I’m just hungry already. Can I come with?”

“Sure. Please. By all means. I was just going for a sandwich, so if you have something else in mind…?”

“Oh, no; a nice sandwich sounds just fine, as long as it comes with dessert.”

“Alright, off we go then.”

They end up at a nearby café that’s just opening for business. Sarah, as usual, doesn’t waste time getting to the point.

“So, what’s up with Sherlock, you guys worked it out yet?”

“Ummm…”

“I kind of jumped you there. Would you like to order first?”

“Yes, please.” 

The first thing Sarah asks is what type of desserts they have. She wasn’t kidding about _that_ being the main appeal of having lunch today. In the mean time, John tries to put down into words what’s been going on.

“So?”, Sarah asks, complementary glass of water in hand.

“So… I found out why Sherlock was being more… Sherlock-ish than usual. But I’m still worried.”

“Did my friend help?”

“Yes and no.”

“Really? No? How so?”

“Well, apparently doctors need to see the actual patient to treat them, it’s bizarre, but it needs to be that way for some reason or other.” 

“Sarcasm! That bad, huh? What did he say when you told him?”

“Well, that’s the thing, I haven’t.” His cup of coffee clinks against the plate when he puts it down. Sarah gives him a knowing smile and the waitress arrives with the other half of their orders. “Thank you.” He smiles to the girl as she rearranges his eating area. 

Sarah waits until the waitress’ finished before speaking.

“What are you waiting for to tell him?”

“I… honestly don’t know.”

“How do you think he’s going to react?”

“I guess what really worries me now is that I don’t know. Maybe he’ll laugh at me and mock me for my _overprotective_ concerns, or yell and have a sulk on the couch. I really don’t know, in fact, I can’t even decide what would be worse: a big reaction or no reaction at all.”

“Well, John, I don’t think you’ll ever find out if you don’t tell him.”

“There is that, too, to consider.”

Sarah laughs and moves on to lighter topics of conversation.

***

Back at the flat, Sherlock’s being blissfully absent, giving him enough space to think and plan. He’ll tell him today, that’s for sure, _how_ , is still up for discussion. He sighs in frustration and lookes over the room stopping at the small heap of articles Sherlock has under the coffee table. 

“Right then, that’s how”, he tells to himself and sets to his room to do some cleaning.

***

John’s fretting in front of the telly, not really watching at all, as far as he knows there might not even be a television in front of him anymore. He still doesn’t know how to work it to the part he actually talks with Sherlock, but he’s decided this day is as good as any. That said, there’s some movement on the staircase and soon enough Sherlock appears in the living room.

John tries to play it cool.

“Hello”, he says as he stares at the telly with intent. 

Sherlock doesn’t answer immediately, he looks him up and down and up again, before uttering something resembling _hello_ , he throws his coat over a chair and walks into the kitchen.

“Have you seen my thumbs? I seem to have misplaced them.”

“Seriously? Of course you’re serious…”, John mutters under his breath. “Umm, let’s see where was it that you saw them last?”

“I don’t know. In the fridge?”

John sits up and turns around to look at Sherlock, who’s bent over the fridge, head completely inside it. He waits until Sherlock closes the door to speak.

“I need to talk with you.” Sherlock stares intently for an entire second and shrugs off.

“Evidently. What could possibly be on your mind, John? I’m sure the thumbs will turn up soon enough, if not the stink will lead us to them.”

“That’s not what I want to talk about.” Sherlock arches an eyebrow. “You’re not in any sort of trouble, if that’s what you’re wandering.”

“I wasn’t, but please, go on.”

“I don’t know how to say this, Sherlock, but you’re… infuriating, most of the time. And I… I was… I thought… I don’t understand you, you know? You have to make everything complicated and you are… you are… most of the time I think you must be a machine or something, you know what I mean?”

“No, not really.” Sherlock shifts in his position, looking all too vulnerable for a fraction of a second and then back to his usual stance of superiority.

“Right, because I’m not making sense—“

“No, you’re not. If that was all..?”

“No, that was not all”. Sherlock shifts again and puts his hands in his pockets and then out again. “I mean, no. I… Jesus, why is this so hard? Look, I’m worried about you. I think there’s… there’re things you do that make people very upset, and I don’t think you realise that until it’s too late. I’m worried: what if next time the guy you’re trying to help tries to kill you instead of taking a swing at you? What if you piss off the wrong person? And what scares me the most is that you’re completely oblivious to all of it, and I can’t figure it if it’s because you don’t care, or you just can’t see it. I even went to see a shrink, for you!”, Sherlock looks up sharply.

“There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“Sherlock, that came out wrong, but even _you_ have to admit there’s something not quite right. And I would really like you to go see her, please.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me!”

“Sherlock, no need to yell, just hear me out, I’m sorry I can’t put it any better into words, but it’s not like I haven’t thought about it, ok? I’ve been thinking this for the past month, I wasn’t even sure where to start and then I asked around—“

“You? You _asked around_? What does asking around even means? You talked to people about _me_? You’re no better than my brother.”

“Sherlock c’mon, let’s talk this out”, Sherlock starts to walk away and down the stairs, “don’t go, please, let’s talk this out I—” the door closes with considerable force and John feels like he’s gone through this before, in the worst possible way.

“Ah, Jesus… that went well.” He puts his hands on his hips and then goes to rub his face with his left hand, “damn, way to go, John, way to go... damn!”

John goes back to the kitchen and tries to work his frustration by doing the dishes, the roaring inside his head so loud he doesn’t notice Mrs Hudson until she taps him on the shoulder.

“ _Woo-hoo_ ”.

A plate slips through his fingers and breaks into three big chunks of now-useless porcelain and he stares at it, trying his best not to scream.

“Is this a bad time?” John inhales deeply and tries to put on a smile.

“What do you want?” He snaps.

“I can come back later if you want me to.”

“No, please, Mrs Hudson, stay, how can I help you?”

“Oh, dear, I was wondering if you could help me with something, but… what did Sherlock do now?”

John smiles weakly.

“Nothing, Mrs Hudson, I mean, it was me, this one’s on me. I’m just a bit worried about him that’s all and it didn’t really come out the best way.”

“Why, what’s wrong? You boys working on a case?”

“No, not that I know of, it’s just… I don’t really know where to begin.”

“How about by cleaning up the mess while I make you a cuppa? Sounds good?”

“Yes, very, thank you.”

He crouches and carefully picks up the pieces of their last but one plate and puts them in the garbage. Mrs Hudson puts glasses and mugs away as the kettle starts to boil.

“Go sit, dear, you look like you need some time for yourself.”

“Tell _me_ about it.” He mutters to himself as he plumps himself down in a chair.

“Yes, Sherlock can be very intense sometimes, too intense.” John’s a bit surprised she could hear him so clearly and turns around to look at her. Mrs Hudson is already pouring the tea into clean mugs.

“Milk, no—”

“No sugar. Yes, I know, just relax, dear.”

Mrs Hudson puts the mugs into a tray and manages to find a couple biscuits in the cupboard, which she sets on a plate and carries to the living room.

“Thank you.”

“So, how’s work going?”

“Um, the surgery? Well, fine I guess.”

“Yeah, they’ve been keeping you extra hours?”

“No, I mean, yes, but I asked for it, I couldn’t make rent, I mean, I have the money now, I just didn’t have it before. Don’t worry Mrs Hudson, we’re paying you tomorrow!”

“But John, Sherlock already gave me the money almost a week ago. I though you knew.”

“Ermm, no, I didn’t.”

“Yes, he even paid next month in advance, said they had been slaving you at work so you had some extra money and you boys had decided to pay next month’s rent immediately, before you spent it somewhere else.”

“I… don’t know what to say.”

“Well that’s Sherlock for you, doing nice things for you and not even letting you know about it.”

John takes some time to reflect upon this and wonders what else Sherlock might have done for him without his knowledge. 

“So, is that why you’re so tired? Work?” Mrs Hudson continues.

”It’s not really the work that’s got me so tired. It’s Sherlock, I’m worried and I was trying to tell him that, you know, before, but I just can’t seem to put it into words. I don’t know how to say it.”

“Well, no matter how you put things, you know Sherlock always takes offense when it comes to him. He thinks he’s the only one who can spot faults in others, and even if he doesn’t think himself perfect, it takes him a while to recognise anything when it comes to him. You know how it is; he’s just not really good at looking himself in the mirror.”

“Ha, tell me about it, the other day I’m sure he put on different socks and came back to change a bit later.”

They laugh.

“But you know what I mean, John. Sherlock, he means well, he’s just… different.”

“That he is, he definitely is.”

***

Mrs Hudson’s left almost three hours ago and John can’t seem to find anything else to occupy himself with for the day. He had hoped for Sherlock to come home and give it another try, but it’s already well into the night and he’s got an early shift tomorrow. 

Just as he’s about to turn in for the night he hears shuffling around the living room, so he comes down to say hello, and apologise for his bluntness. He goes into the living room and sure enough he finds Sherlock sitting on the sofa, hands cupped under his chin. Thinking.

“John, I was hoping you would come down, I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“O-K?” That was unexpected.

“I wanted to talk with you. Would you please sit down?”

“Is everything alright? Are you OK? Did something happen?”

“No, I mean… nothing new. I want to talk about before. I, umm…” Sherlock looks up to the ceiling and inhales deeply, holding his breath for a second and releasing it slowly.

“Look, you don’t have to—“

“No, John, seriously, I have something to say, so please, shut up.” 

John shuts his mouth immediately and rests his entire weight into the back of the chair where he’s sitting. 

“It’s not easy to tell you this. And it takes a lot of effort to do so, but for you to understand I need to start in the beginning. Alright?” John nods. “As a child my parents took me to see a few psychologists. I was a very difficult child, you see, not that my parents would ever agree to that, but by the time I turned 13 it was pretty evident I couldn’t stand the scratch of my own skin, and after an altercate with a teacher that almost got me sued, the school recommended I went to see a professional. It didn’t go particularly well, you can probably imagine.” He shifts in his seat and smoothes out his trousers. “Eventually I found a therapist I was sort of comfortable with, but he didn’t have a clue, I mean, I’m sure he was good and nice and everything else you can think of…” he rolls his eyes, “It made think I could change, I could somehow fit in. Be _normal_ , whatever normal means. But after a while, it was evident, at least to me, that I was way over his capabilities and knowledge, so I stopped going. My dad thought of it as a sign of me growing up and I don’t think my mum ever had the heart to go and ask my therapist personally what happened. I just told them I wouldn’t go again and then I didn’t mention it, pretended it never happened…” He starts rubbing the palms of his hands on his legs, looking lost and scared.

“You don’t have to tell me this, Sherlock. You don’t… ” He shakes his head slightly.

Sherlock looks up very briefly, right into his eyes and quickly breaks off looking anywhere but there. He settles for the floor again. His hands going still at his knees.

“I’ll use my brother’s assessment of the results: it taught me to be _human_.” There’s contempt on his eyes, but he smiles weakly before continuing. “I never gave it much thought, for years, but after rehab and all the sanctimonious crap you have to get through to get your freedom back…” a pause, “and I’ve been thinking about it lately. I keep going back to these scenes of my childhood and I… I didn’t get angry with you because of what you said. I got angry because I think it’s true. I think there’s something wrong with me.”

“Oh, Sherlock…”, John has the urge to contain him somehow, but fights the impulse, he knows Sherlock would never appreciate being thought of as fragile.

“Don’t, I don’t want your pity, I don’t even know if I want your help! I just… I just…”

“What do you think it is?” John’s hand automatically go into his lap and clasp together, very much like what he would do if he were asking a patient to list his symptoms.

”What? I didn’t get…?”

“Sorry, I’ll rephrase it. You think there’s something wrong with you. What do you think it is? What’s wrong with you? I know a long time ago you said you were a functional sociopath, but I don’t think you’d be looking this worried if it were indeed functional.”

Sherlock presses his left thumb to the corner of his mouth and strokes his lips with his index finger.

“I used to think I was functional, I still maintain that I am, except, perhaps not as functional as I had thought. So far I’ve narrowed it down to either a personality disorder or…”, he hesitates.

“Yes?”

Sherlock clears his throat.

“Or a pervasive developmental disorder.”

“Meaning?”

“Asperger’s”

John, who’s been reading about psychiatric evaluations, social skills and its impairment in adults, has a good outline of what Asperger’s Syndrome means. Suddenly he has a flashback to the surgery, when his little patient, Gwen, went mental over a unicorn sticker, or rather over a not-a-horse sticker. He thinks of her mum’s bags under the eyes, the subtle rendition and restraint at her daughter’s tantrum. He can picture Sherlock like that as a child. Exploding when things didn’t go his way, taking shuddering breaths to calm down, trying ever so hard to explain himself and others what just happened.

“You’re awfully quiet. Do you think me a freak, now?” Sherlock murmurs the last part.

“No, not at all. I was just thinking.”

“I know, I could see those brain cogs smoking from the exertion.” Sherlock gives a tentative smile. 

“That was a joke, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Riiiight.” John appreciates the distraction, even if he doesn’t think it funny. “I’ll let you know as soon as I can get an appointment for you with the psychiatrist. Is that alright?”

“No.” John’s taken by surprise. 

“Why the hell not?!” 

“Well, first you have to tell me what she said!”

“Oh, right! My bad.” John laughs, on purpose, trying to break the ice. “So sorry, mate. First, she said there’s no way she’ll give you a diagnosis, she’ll have to give you a referral…” Sherlock rolls his eyes and practically pouts, but remains quiet and _listens_ , and that’s what’s important. 

John tells him everything about the psychiatrist, everything he can think of, the way she talked, the colour of the walls, the content of their conversation, how she seemed diligent enough; and when everything that could be said, has been said, he looks up at Sherlock and asks again.

“Should I make an appointment for you?”

Sherlock nods. And even if John knows Sherlock will probably need a lot of re-convincing and maybe some dragging, he’s finally on the steady path of helping Sherlock (and himself) find the answers he needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, that took a lot of effort! It's 1:30 AM where I live, I'm pretty sure I missed a comma somewhere, but I had to post it, to feel I had done something useful today. Yeah. 
> 
> I'm hoping to have the next chapter within two weeks, but I'm not making any promises, academic life's been screwing with all my plans lately.
> 
> So, ummm, good night?


End file.
